Enter a storybook tale
Where I can be
The heroine you hail
Lucid dreams of soft reflection
A touch heated with lust and desired protection
A breathe a gasp as we succeed
Join the fairytale with me
Valiant night within dark eyes
the right movement and I make them shine
like moonlight on the steamy hot spring
care to follow for a little dip with me
Trailing like the water at my fingertips
Grasp me around my hips
As close as the breeze on my skin
Whisper lies as I let you in
Lips mumbling up my thighs
bare heart exposed to the sky
fire burning in my veins
Am I a mistress of this lust or simply a slave
Trembling with desire
Take me till we've lost count of the hours
enter this storybook tale
Where I can be the heroine you hail
heres how i see it
and heres how it is
living in this world where half of it is advanced
with indoor plumbing
and a huge chunk of the globe is not
part of the world still has a hole in the floor for a toilet
and we say ignorance is bliss
oh funny funny man on the moon
the joke you really meant in the Hollywood basement
of one giant step for man
and one leap for mankind
Have we not clued in yet?
Do we not live blind leading the blind?
Am i the only enlightened who realizes
that we were in space probably 70 years before we made it public to the world
and Nasa is full of it
oh funny funny funny man on the moon
why is society so gullible to think
that the governments technology hits the mainstream market
before they use it for years and perfect it and work out all the bugs
and then hands us something that just looks faulty
and we fall for it hook line and sinker
give me a moment
funny funny funny us
half the world buries their waste
and we flush it away
half the world has technology and half of it is in the stone age
and yet we seem to think
that whoever invents these things has no ties
or affiliation to putting us under their thumb
i mean come on do the math
they landed on the moon
how they tell you they send sattelites into space is a truth within alie
they made up 50 years ago
and were falling for it today
let me play
i get it
society is dumb
I'll write something yesterday
say i wrote it today
no one will know what to believe
I'll even put a cowboy hat on
I'm sure those cowboy western movies
they had just as many cameras and cellphones
but didn't release them in the market
consider yourself a fool
if you don't think they don't have something in their pocket full of tricks they are
working on right now
they're going to sell to the future
and no one gets the famous joke
the man on the moon told to the mensa geniuses
but a hush fell over the crowd
and I'm sure there was consequences for laughing
and chances are even they were blinded by the bling
life and blind leading the blind
such an easy concept to grasp
and man on the moon
your a funny funny funny man!
I was heading to the bunkhouse, after a wild night on the town
dancing & romancing & one too many round
Back in my wild & woolly days, one more rowdy Saturday night
full of cheap beer & whiskey & the necessary fight
I set Ol' Gus on auto pilot, he knew the way back to the spread
And I set to fighting with those rotgut demons dancing in my head
We were getting pretty close to home, so I eased up on the bit
when all of a sudden that dang horse he up & quit
His ears were all pricked forward, listening quite intense
I caught a drift of what might pass for music, somewhere beyond the fence
It took a lot of persuading, cussing & cajoling
but I got ol' Gus headed for all the caterwauling
the sound got more peculiar as we crested the hill
the memory of what I saw that moonlit night stays with me still
for I had stumbled on a peculiar party, hosted by a peg leg dog
and there was a one eyed pole cat doing comedic monologue
A Blueberry Roan soon took the stage, singing Motley Crue
I swear I saw a big ol' ornery hog with a "born to squeal" tattoo
There were bulls & Heifers dancing, I couldn't believe my eyes
why those bovine wore spikes and body piercings, in places utterly unwise
There where horses with mohawk hairdos head banging to the song
I swear to you, Ol' Gus, he began to sway & sing along
Now I know what you're thinking & I most heartily agree
it was the moon & wind playing tricks, along with rotgut whiskey
You city folks can keep your pink elephants parading in tutus
for this cowboy was shown the light by a Roan in blue suede shoes
I gave up hell raising & carousing, said so long to the honky-tonk life
Happy now to stick to ranching & dancing under the moon with my wife
But every now & again, when the wind blows & the moon is shining bright
I swear I can hear the livestock laughing & head banging through the night
It slides softly in the night sky,
That pale moccasin of the moon—
It lights up a snow-bleached prairie—
Whispering summer comes too soon.
We trace the trail of coyotes—
Avoid the dark dens of the bear—
The full light of your white footprint
Lures us now to your fatal lair.
Oh, we chant into the black dome
Of all the things that used to be—
There’s no more Indian summer—
Long gone are Cree and Cherokee.
Yet, still the silky stealthy tread
Brings back images bright and keen—
Of lost Native Americans
Where so few are now seldom seen.
But moons do not let us forget
All the wild blood shed on both sides—
As we trace steps of moccasins
To where the dark of the moon hides.
Yes, it walks gently in tall sky,
That faint moccasin of new moon—
So gently it illuminates
As we dance mutely to its tune.
Beyond the moon and past the last star
is the realm of cowboys who dream.
Who ride their horses across plains,
their mounts noses snorting steam.
As comets streak across the chalkboard,
horses whinny and bawl through the night.
Every glare and solar flare filling the steeds
with a celestial spook and a heavenly fright.
The moon is a constant glow as it rides
along through the moonbeams and clouds.
Night winds blow the cosmic dust around,
making the gauzy glitter into planetary shrouds.
I want to be a cowboy and hear the angels sing
as the campfire glows, dimly, singing me to sleep.
the stars are my doggies; lowing as, at last,
the shadows fail and sunlight begins to creep.
Black rain, enclosed with pain and nothing
left to gain.
Dark clouds disguise the sun, under the
moon stands a guy with a gun.
His mental state is altered, his voice
on display, a cowboy out to play.
He strains to find the words to
In the end he will pretend
His hospitality overrated, he has a
helping hand to lend.
He points and aims, squeezes the trigger
At this shady character, that passing
The soldier of the damp and cold
His eye's blinded by the flash of
a neon light.
The crowd frozen with disbelief,
citizens and self proclaimed soldiers
of peace, the Indians too.
The night has just begun, the moon silently
creeping through the oddly shaped clouds.
The drumming of ancient tribes pierce
the night with they're thunderous sound.
Dancing under the moon on the cold
Cowboys out west, Indians out
Times of violent outbreaks followed by
times of peace.
But she would not even read it – she knew what lay within—
A red rage toward her country now the fire that was her friend.
Yet just a few days later on a now black Christmas Eve—
Another knock was heard from a cowboy come home on leave.
And Jim Blue Moon stood on the porch with presents in one arm,
A proof against dark forces wishing all of us great harm.
He said like Twain, news of his death was exaggerated—
And with smiles his wife helped him in, and they celebrated.
Yet in the haze of happiness and all her loving care,
Only now did Liz realize Blue’s left arm was not there.
But snatching life from death’s dark rider is a precious thing,
And nothing could dispel the joy their reunion would bring.
Then came the new Christmas day, which now seemed so clear and bright—
Yet Blue held back - flexed his cold metal arm in morning light.
“I wonder if it was worth it?” Blue mumbled at the sight—
But Liz nodded and said: “Yes, you did the thing that was right.”
Then they slowly opened presents - three united again—
Later dad and mom came over, and each rodeo friend.
“PBR’s done,” dad whispered in a voice like from the grave—
“Heck no!” Blue then replied, “I just lost the arm that I wave!”
Sure enough, with prosthetic arm, Blue rode the bulls once more—
Till he volunteered to go back to that faraway shore.
Alone, Jim’s wife held their child and the inner one so new—
As a full, pale Christmas moon rose and slowly turned to blue.
We slowly ride this sacred night,
Look back on home below.
The earth is in a swaddling white—
Moon shadows on the snow.
This chosen time now seems just right
In lone star’s afterglow.
It guides our lives on this birth night
And flickers as we go.
We’ll follow trails on that new day—
All blessings we shall know
Of inward peace and silent sleigh—
Moon shadows on the snow.
Jimmie’s dad was bent and wise, a man that life had rode by—
But Jim still recalled his words when he would laugh and half cry:
“Life’s a fragile balance between honor and what’s true—
A rare, livin’ miracle like a winter moon that’s blue.”
Jimmie started busting sheep when he was only six—
His dad taught him to ride and shoot, and do those fancy tricks.
He grew long and lean on that ranch and helped with the chores—
And rode the broncs and young bulls then, keeping track of his scores.
His name was Jimmie Moon, but his friends just called “Blue”—
‘Cause kids like him were few and far and his heart was strong and true.
He had wisdom beyond his years – he had seen the light—
He never did the easy thing; he did the thing that’s right.
It came as no surprise; he married a girl named Liz
Folks knew was large with child that was another man’s, not his.
But that was fine with Blue and he still followed his star—
Ranching now part-time and riding bulls in the PBR.
“It’s not like the ol’ days,” smiled his dad, not being funny—
“Then bull ridin’ was for buckles – now you’re talkin’ money!”
But just as Jimmie Blue Moon was on the edge of fame—
September 11th happened and stirred within a flame.
Though his family begged him not to sign and go away—
He enlisted in the Army just the very next day.
Sure enough, his service to a cause became a fact
And he was sent far off to war in a place called Iraq.
Then months and years rolled by as Blue only rode iron tanks—
Never forgetting his wife and child, for which he gave thanks.
Then came a Christmas season when Blue’s ranch was deep with snow—
A knock on the door brought news Blue’s wife did not want to know.
October had now come again just like it did back since,
The gunfighter Sam Holt had shot the kid named Benny Pence.
It was on All Hallows’ night with the moon high and blood red—
When Benny came lookin’ for him before he shot him dead.
Why would a fool farm boy try to draw on that gun slinger?
When he had no chance on God’s earth if he raised a finger?
But sure enough on that night, that’s what all the town then saw—
When Benny Pence raised his gun and said the fatal word: “Draw!”
But that had been a year ago come this All Hallows’ Eve,
And Sam Holt felt a cold wind blow that made him want to leave.
The harvest moon now hung above as Sam walked down the street—
He stopped for one brief moment at the place where they did meet.
Then like a dream that voice came back that meekly called him out—
Sam’s cold, sweaty hand then trembled as he began to shout:
“Don’t call me Ben! I’ll shoot you dead, and this time I’ll make good!”
Then Sam wildly drew and fired at the pale moon where he stood.
Somewhere a hoot owl screamed and Sam’s loud shots rang out on high,
As he fired and fired again at Ben’s shadow so he’d die.
But when the gun smoke cleared and that dim vision was not there,
Sam Holt now stood just a dyin’ in the dusty street square.
There were no gunshots in Sam’s body, no marks found at all—
His hair now white, his once ruddy flesh now a deathly pall.
Yet when the town folk buried Sam, they noticed at Boot Hill,
Two other graves marked Pence by the one they had come to fill.
Benny Pence and his brother Bud, had died a year apart—
Both shot down by Sam Holt that feared gunslinger with no heart.
And so the three now rested within gun fire of the others—
Holt now dead of fright from those two departed Pence brothers.
And so each year it happened: other slingers would meet fate—
And die of fright All Hallows’ night when the hour was late.
So now folk knew the story of that fool kid Benny Pence—
Come back to revenge his brother each All Hallows’ night since.
The moon is full above the canyon
listen to the call...
The music of the river
echoes between the walls.
A love song for the brave
who boldly choose to walk,
The path of their true destiny
as the drums begin to talk.
The boulder on the ridge
catches and holds the light,
Providing a mystic place
for passion in the night.
Hearts beating to the cadence
of the drums far below,
Sharing souls and secrets
only the moon will know.
Breathe deep the magic moment,
It is here by more than chance,
Come out of the half shadows,